They are things faint and slight in themselves, as physical facts, but they are like the detonator of a bomb: they let loose the explosive. “Well, well, Martin. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. She shuddered; the room was unfamiliar and unwelcoming. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said.
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